Queen, Black
by D'Avoir un Coeur
Summary: Rogue, on the run and fully Cured, wakes up to the face of a handsome stranger... and finds herself the key piece in a bloodthirsty political battle in amongst Thieves and cold blooded killers. And she doesn't even know it yet. PG13 and completely canon.
1. A Second? Encounter

Bonjour to all. This is a story that I'm doing purely for fun. I have the plot all worked out, but only a few chapters written- I make no promises on updating. Reviews will expedite the process, but whenever I _promise _another chapter, or give myself a deadline, the entire story collapses.

So. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I'm enjoying writing it; and, as all writers, I'd appreciate any reviews. :)

Diclaimer: Don't own it, wish I did, yada yada [insert something witty here.]

Rating: T for now, potentially M. While humor/romance, this isn't headed pretty places.

* * *

Marie groaned as she came awake, clutching her head as the dim light of the room pierced her retinas. With bleary eyes she searched her surroundings, wondering where she'd ended up.

"Ah could _kill _Logan for this," she mumbled.

Though, perhaps hitching various rides to Baton Rouge, Louisiana and allowing the maudlin tendencies of the (former) object of her (not-so-secret) attentions to direct her to a dingy bar could not be considered- _entirely_- his fault. Maybe.

But she _really_ wanted to blame someone for this.

Marie stumbled upright, somehow, and nearly fell again when her vision faded out; and noticed that she had forgotten how to breathe at some point. She addressed that issue, trying largely unsuccessfully to steady herself.

_Next time I decide to drink, I'll remember not to do it like I'm a man with a freaking _healing factor.

She couldn't seem to remember much about last night. It was all a rather large, rather pleasant blur beyond the third (fourth?) beer.

But as her vision slowly stopped swimming around, all surviving good feelings vanished. She _definitely _did not remember coming here.

There was a king-sized bed with rumpled burgundy sheets- were those _silk_?- which she had apparently either fallen off of or not made it to; an assortment of bookcases chock full with all manner of titles; a large mahogany desk complete with a leather armchair, high tech computer monitor, and a conflagaration of wires and strange machines; and finally, a large assortment of clothes was strewn about in piles on the deep, richly colored carpet.

When did she-?

All other concerns faded when a wave of nausea overtook her. Swaying back and forth on her feet, Marie managed to make it to the nearest door without falling- miraculously, without tossing her cookies- and prayed that it was the bathroom.

She was in luck. And it continued to hold as she fell forward on her knees: she somehow didn't crack her head open on anything, and she ended auspiciously placed beside the toilet.

After three minutes of dizzying, horrifying grossness in which she puked her guts out (and perhaps an organ or two; she couldn't be sure), she felt much better. Her headache seemed to have lightened a little as well.

Feeling strangely weak, she hauled herself up and flushed the toilet with a trembling hand. It was really cold all of a sudden.

_First and last time I drink, _she moaned internally, and went to the sink to rinse her mouth out.

Feeling better still, she turned to see if she couldn't figure out where the heck she was.

"_Bonjour_, _chere_."

Her rear slammed ungracefully and painfully against the counter as she wheeled away from the stranger who was abruptly _there_, and only managed to keep her unreliable balance with a combination of scrabbling hands and some more of the aforementioned luck.

The perpetrator, a tall man with long, tousled brown locks that fell in his face (further hidden by a pair of sunglasses), leaned against the door frame with an amused smile tilting the side of his mouth.

"Feelin' better?" he asked.

She eyed him mistrustfully. She, with miraculous willpower, suceeded in ignoring the conclusion that every clue was pointing to, and asked, "Who are you?"

"Aww, cherie, you don' remember Remy? 'M hurt."

Anger rose swiftly in her chest- this was _no_ time to be joking around- and her lips thinned. "Where am Ah, swamp rat?"

"Dis, river rat," he replied easily, "would be _mon appartement._"

It took her wits a moment to recover from this blow. "Your apartment," she repeated faintly, after a moment. "Are you sure? It don't mean, lahke, somethin' different in French?"

"Non, petite. Sorry. Yo' in Remy's apartment, no gettin 'round it."

"Okay," she said, struggling to make sense of this appalling development, and hit upon an acceptable explanation.

"Well, thanks for yoah help gettin' back from the bar an' awll; but Ah think Ah should be headed back now," she said.

It didn't particularly matter, at that point, that she had no idea where 'back' would be. She just had a vague suspicion that she didn't want to stick around much longer to discover any other potentially (okay, in lieu of the situation,_ very_ probably) unpleasant facts.

Along those lines, she really didn't want to think about why his voice shook a little with mirth when he spoke. "Dat wasn' _zactly_ how it went down, chere. I c'n understand how it's a bit muddled in dat head o' yours, seein' as y' didn' want t' let go of dat bottle even for de ceremony."

Time froze.

"_Ceremony_?" she repeated softly.

He was outright grinning now. Like a wolf, she thought numbly. "_Oui, ma femme. _Y' taken a look at y' left hand lately? Picked it out m'self."

Still disbelieving, she looked. And there, glinting innocently in the light of the bathroom, was an ornate silver band- a large, brilliant emerald set in the center, surrounded by dozens of crystal diamond droplets.

"Oh mah _Gawd_."

* * *

I know, I know; Remy getting married isn't exactly in keeping with his character. Trust me, he has a reason-- this is only the prologue. I can't be revealing my secrets right off the bat.

So, interested? Suggestions? I appreciate all reviews- even flames, as long as there's something worthwhile I can take away from them. :D


	2. The Pitch

_Bonjour encore. _I've already replied to all reviews personally, but I want to say thank you, again. It really was wonderful, getting such encouraging responses; and for such a short prologue too. You guys rock.

Couple things pointed out in those wonderful reviews: Rogue and Remy married (right off the bat) is not really an original idea. {hangs head} Actually, the first inspiration for this came from reading a not-so-great one of those married Romy fics, and thinking 'Yeesh. I could do so much better than that, and that is _saying _something.'

Additionally, I guess I wasn't being so subtle about the reasons for Remy's marrying Rogue. Heh. {rubs head sheepishly} Ah well; I will content myself with the many as-yet-unrevealed mysteries and plot twists that I have in store for you.

Ceasing rambling; sorry. Please enjoy.

* * *

"Ya _caint_ be serious."

'Remy' only continued to grin.

Marie repeated herself, in the hopes that doing so would somehow dissolve this smirking stranger into harmless smoke, and that her world would reorient to its normal, miserable (but very nonthreatening) level.

"'Fraid I am, _chere_," he told her.

"Who- who _are _ya?" she demanded.

He moved forward, and she tried to back farther into the sink- futilely. She refused to cower back, however, when he rested a hand against the counter and leaned just a little closer than was appropriate for strangers. And not enough for her to have an adequate excuse for shoving him away.

"_Ma belle_ Rogue," he said, "we got t' know each other pret-ty well last night."

She gave an outraged gasp, and shoved him after all. Well, that was the idea, at any rate- but he bent with the force, and her balance defected spectacularly.

It would have been an ungainly, very painful fall, except for the fact that he caught her. Sparing her one embarrassment only for one far worse.

"Claws in, _chere,_" he murmured down to her, that smirk still twitching at the corners of his mouth, and his hand warm at the small of her back where he held her weight. "Don' want t' have t' go t' counseling before we even get to de honeymoon."

"_HONEYM_-! Let meh go, ya- ya filthy idiot!"

Remy laughed richly, and set her back on her feet. "_Pas un probleme pour ma belle cherie." _

Marie restrained herself with an effort. She closed her eyes, rubbed her temples, and tried to reclaim her scattered, battered wits.

_This is what happens when ya go drinkin' in a place lahke _that_. _

The thought wasn't especially comforting.

Remy seemed content to wait, observing her from behind his sunglasses with a faint grin.

"Okay," she said, trying to steady herself, and met his gaze resolutely. "We're really married?"

"Oui, petite."

She valiantly ignored the world ending implications of that. "Ah signed the papers?"

He nodded, his amusement increasing perceptibly.

"You did, too?" she persisted.

"Oui, _fille_. We married- de legal, 'til death do we part' kind."

Marie drew a shaky breath. "Okay. This ain't the end of the world," she told herself.

"Dat's de spirit, _cherie,_" he encouraged.

"Right. Ah want a divorce."

Remy's grin faded. He tried a different tack. "Y' don't know dat for sure yet, _hein_? Remy-"

"Ah want a divorce," she repeated forcefully.

Remy's expression was now unreadable. "Y' got a lawyer, _chere?_"

Rogue paused. She didn't. And what was more, she couldn't afford one. (She couldn't afford more than one week's worth of motel stay and food, either, but that was beside the point.)

"Ah'll sign whatevah papers ya give meh," she said, less confidently.

"Ain't gonna give y' any papers, _chere._"

Marie stared at him, stumped, and came to the realization that the universe must be in the process of imploding.

Remy changed again, straightening. "Mebbe we got off on de wrong foot, _petite. Bonjour_. 'M name's Remy LeBeau, at y' service."

He extended his hand. She shifted her blank stare to the appendage, instead of his shielded face, and the universe wasn't improving any.

"Y' gonna shake m' hand, _chere?_" he asked patiently.

Marie didn't know quite why or how she ended up putting her hand in his, but suddenly he was turning it over in his grasp, and raising her knuckles to his mouth. A tremor shot down her spine as his lips brushed lightly over her skin, and she dimly registered somewhere that his eyebrows spiked above his glasses, in surprise at something or other.

But the next instant, she was far too muddle-headed to think about his eyebrows. More important parts of his face- which was all angles, planes, and mobile mouth- took up the majority of her now inexplicably steamy thoughts.

His husky voice interrupted them. "Dat's better. Now. Mebbe we go out t' breakfast, _ma belle, _an' we start over."

-

Half an hour later, freshly showered and dressed (albeit in her same clothes) and her headache vanquished with aspirin, she felt considerably better.

However, she still didn't know quite how she'd agreed to breakfast, or for that matter why she was in such a… such a _placid_ mood.

She had the distinct impression she should be screaming, running, and/or hiding-- perhaps punctuated by hurling sharp objects in a trajectory that ended in this 'Remy's' head.

Marie was not certain how one should react in a situation such as this, although all the above mentioned options seemed entirely reasonable. What she _did _know, was that she should most definitely _not _be sitting calmly across from him, at a quaint little bistro, ordering _breakfast_.

There just really was something _wrong_ with the situation. She couldn't put a finger on it exactly... though it might have had something to do with the (vaguely) alarming realization that she just wasn't caring much about anything- except for the fact that he'd looked at some other girl's butt. Which irritation then proceeded to fade as well, after a few seconds.

_Didn't read about blind euphoria _after _a drunken binge. _

Suddenly it hit her.

She jabbed a finger at him over the table. "Ya spiked the aspirin," she accused.

He looked genuinely puzzled. "_Quoi?_"

"The aspirin ya gave meh," she repeated, faltering a little for some unknown reason. "It was spiked?"

When, _exactly_, did her accusation become a question?

_Okay, this is really_ outside_ of enough. _

"What did ya _do _ta meh, swamp rat?" she demanded.

Remy was grinning again. "Nothin', chere, but remind m' to later. Y' look real _belle _when y' angry."

Unimpressed, and bolstered by the sensation of rose colored fog fading from her mind, she crossed her arms. "Rahght."

He blew out a breath. Impatiently- _impatiently_?! _He _was impatient? The _nerve_!- he said, "Look, petite, we got a lot t' talk about. An' Remy'd prefer not t' get thrown out o' his favorite café. _D'accord_?"

Marie crossed her arms belligerently, but subsided. It _was _a nice little bistro. The proprieter had greeted Remy on sight, leading them both upstairs to a private balcony. And all without even one high nosed look at Marie's casual (and somewhat rumpled) clothes, which she was acutely grateful for.

She sat and let Remy order coffee and crepes for the both of them while she looked over the street below. Marie watched the quiet bustle and hustle of people going about their business; smiled at a flower seller arranging bouquets on stands against her house, who went about her work oblivious to scrutiny; looked at the narrow cobblestone street below; and enjoyed the beautiful crème colored stucco of the nearby vine-covered buildings. A brief feeling of peace washed over her stomach, and she took a deep breath as she purposefully looked away. There was a very unpleasant reality to be dealt with; no time for admiring scenery. She tried to marshal her thoughts.

Once the waiter left, she looked up at Remy. "Ah really don't get it," she said, with careful neutrality. "This just don't add up, and not just because Ah caint remembah a thang after eight o'clock last nahght. Ya met meh at the bar, Ah gather. Why'd ya even _want_ to marry meh?"

"Y' sellin y'self short, _cherie. _Yo' _tres belle. _Way Remy figures it, he's fortunate to've gotten y' before some ot'er lucky _homm_e."

There was a flicker of something again in her mind, but she shook it off violently.

_You ain't seriously considering letting this guy you_ don't even know_ get away with this because he's telling you you're pretty, are you?_

That helped clear her traitorous head. "Flattery ain't gonna get you _anywhere_, Cajun. Ah wanna know why, an' Ah wanna know _now_."

He sighed and leaned back in the chair. "You a difficult _femme_ when y' sober, y' know dat?"

"Ah got a feelin' that _yoah_ infuriatin in _any_ condition," she retorted.

He laughed aloud, which only piqued her further. "See, y' know Remy already," he said. "We practically soul mates, _hein?_"

Her hands clenched into fists. "Will you get _off _that already? Ah ain't gonna marry ya, and that's _it!_"

"Y' already did," he pointed out. Then he stayed the next outburst with a hand. "Listen, _chere, _what be so bad about bein' married t' Remy?"

She stared at him. For a long time. Then, she raised a hand and began ticking off points on her hand. "Ah met ya when Ah was drunk. Ah- Ah _married _ya when Ah was drunk. An' Ah don't remembah _either_ of 'em happenin-- cuz Ah was drunk. On top of it awll, Ah don't got a clue who ya are- ya might just be some thug off the street, even. _An'_, ya got the biggest ego Ah've evah _seen, _thinkin' that this whole thing should be perfectly okay with meh!"

Remy looked at her in turn for a few minutes, an expression on his face of indecision. Finally he spoke, "Okay, _chere_. I 'pologize. See, I got m'self a bit o' a problem. A problem dat I need yo' help t' fix."

"By my bein' married to ya," she said flatly.

He grinned and leaned back again. "Oui, _cherie_," he said, with the aura of a man beginning a tale. "See, _ma famille_ has dis idea in deir head dat Remy should marry a certain _femme_, a _femme_ called Belladonna." He shuddered melodramatically. "Beautiful _fille_, but de kind y' look at from a safe distance, _hein_? Anyway, marryin' a shrew on someone else's terms ain't de way Remy lives his life." He flashed a grin at her. "Much rather marry a shrew on my own."

She bristled. "If ya think ya're gonna get meh ta go along with this by insultin'-"

Remy cut her off, irritation flashing briefly on his face as though she'd missed the point. "Let m' finish, non? I don' expect y' t' do nothin' but keep up de charade for my family for a couplea months. We spend a month or so doin' whatever y' want- mebbe go t' an island; don' matter. Den we come back an' pretend t' shack up somewhere t'gether for maybe another six months- away from de _famille_… a year, if y' c'n put up wit' me. Den we separate, quiet like, an' y' c'n do whatever y' please from den on."

Marie found herself staring, yet again. "An' ya expect meh to _agree _ta this?" she demanded.

Remy shrugged. "Y' agreed last night."

"Ah was drunker'n two rats in a corked bottle o' whiskey!"

"Dat wasn' my fault, now was it?" he asked reasonably.

She scrunched her eyes closed, and fought the irresistible wave of anger swelling in her. It wouldn't do her any good. _I need to calm down and figure out how the heck I'm gonna get myself out of this. _

"Now, now, chere," said Remy, shifting a little, "dere really ain' no reason f' you t' be upset about dis. It not be such a bad idea for y'. Y' married money an' a decent 'mount of power to boot, when y' let Remy put dat ring on yo' pretty li'l finger. I more den willin' t' let y' have free rein on de spendin, even after we separate. If y' help me, y'll have earned it- an' whatever else y' may want, besides. Remy's a reasonable man, _ma chere_."

The battle with her temper was losing. "Ah caint understand how ya can be so horribly _arrogant _about this! What makes ya think Ah'll be so ready ta drop everythang an' take up- take up this _business proposition_ at the snap of yoah fingers?"

"Because, _chere_," he said calmly, still refusing to be drawn into a fight, "Remy didn' swoop in an' compromise y'. I met y' at m' favorite bar, where I had ev'ry intention of drownin m' sorrows in bourbon. _Mais, _Remy never been one t' drown alone, if dere be a _belle _around. You got talkin', I got thinkin', and you kept drinkin'." An expression of amusement flickered over his face. "An' den y' went talkin' some more, fit t' run yo' tongue out. From what I gathered, chere, y' be pretty much at a dead end right now."

She stiffened in offense, and he sighed.

"Y' touchy, y' know dat? I didn' mean not'ing by it, an' it ain't nothin t' be shamed of. What Remy's trying t' say, _chere_, is dat dis be a win-win situation. You get a li'l bit o' revenge on dat Bobby _garcon_, dat Logan fellow don' get t' say I told y' so, an' you set, money wise, for de rest o' yo' life. All dat, for not'ing more dan a year's worth of actin'."

Marie was still silent, trying to take all this in; and by no means mollified by his brightly polished spiel. He was a bit too convincing, a bit too prepared...

Then, like a lightning strike, the way out of this entire fiasco presented itself to her. It was stunningly, beautifully simple.

"Ah'm a mutant!" she announced breathlessly.

And he _laughed. _

"Ouais, chere," he said lazily, leaning back; "I know. Y' told me dat too. Funny how _dis _time, y' didn' mention you're Cured."

Pink tinged her cheeks as she experienced the most unpleasant sensation- akin to the feeling of all the air going out of her. "Yoah- yoah family, then," she tried, desperate. "They won't lahke th' idea of the- th' gene pool bein' corrupted. Even if Ah'm Cured."

He chuckled again, and had she been paying attention and not mildly panicking, she would have detected an irony in the sound. "Not everyone be so mutant hatin' as y' seem t' think, chere. I be one, too."

For the umpteenth time, she felt reality shift and swirl around her mockingly- just when she thought she had uncovered the last of the grisly details.

"A mutant?" she echoed faintly.

"Oui," he said again, with great patience.

She sunk her head in her hands with a moan, and regretted not having puked on his carpet. Not only did he deserve it, but maybe she could've used _that _luck on _this_, since she had clearly by this point run out.

The food came, but she did not raise her head as the waiter set down the plates and cups, and left again.

"Here, _chere_," said Remy after a few minutes, and looked up to find herself presented with a coffee mug. It smelled really good, and looked like it was eighty percent cream and sugar- just how she liked it.

But taking it would mean a sort of truce. She resisted the siren call of the caffeine, and glared at him pointedly.

He snorted, and set the china down. "De sooner y' stop actin childish, de sooner y' can start enjoyin y' good fortune. Like y' said, dis ain't de end o' de world."

Her head snapped up at that. "Ah haven't said yes yet, swamp rat, and Ah wouldn't bet on it eithah!"

Remy met her gaze silently for a few seconds before he replied. "It's de only logical choice, _chere. _You c'n refuse, noting I can do about dat. But without me givin' y' access to m' money y'd be jus' as bad off as before- only still married on top o' it."

An expression of- something, disgust maybe?- crossed his face and he swore in French. "Listen, _petite,_ don' let y' stubbornness or pride or whatever dis be get in de way. Dis is a good deal an' y' know it. Y' weren't so drunk dat y' couldn' make up y' own mind, as surprisin' as dat is." He sighed. "I don' like pushin' y' into dis, an I wouldn't be, if it wasn' de perfect solution for bot' our problems."

Marie fell silent, looking at the crepes on her plate, which by this point had stopped steaming. What else did she have to do with herself, anyway? What else _could _she do? She pinched the bridge of her nose wearily; trying to combat the headache that still was pressing past the drugs in her system. "Ah cain't believe Ah'm considerin' this," she muttered.

He leaned forward. "Y' agree den?"

"Slow down, swamp rat," she snapped. "Ah ain't said yes. Ah said Ah'm thinkin' about it. Lahke Ah said, Ah don't even know if Ah can trust ya. Ah met ya in a seedy bar where ya then went an' married meh- whahle _Ah was drunk_. Forgive meh if Ah'm a li'l skeptical of this whole deal."

She didn't even know who he _was. _There was a very good chance she should be worrying about her safety. For all he oozed charm and amiability, this 'Remy' was tall, lean, and well-built. Marie had recognized the grace of a wizened fighter in his movement right of the bat. And_,_ she'd picked him up at one of _Logan's _old haunts. That little detail in itself was cause enough for concern.

But though he was undoubtedly a filthy swamp rat, too old for her, and definitely not the kind of company she would be keeping (much less marrying!) under ideal circumstances, he was still right.

Marie cast her glance out over the balcony, without really seeing any of the beauty the sunny city had to offer. She had absolutely nothing to her newly changed name. No money, nowhere to go, nothing to do, no way to support herself, not even a GED. She'd skipped out only two weeks before graduation, but she didn't have the diploma.

Going South- not home, but back where the weather felt right- had been a spur of the moment, spite-induced decision that hadn't been thought out. (At all.) If she didn't take what Remy was offering, she'd be on the streets in less than a week... even if by some miracle, she _did _manage to find a job. Which was doubtful.

She didn't have a choice.

"Ah want _all_ the terms mapped out, and then Ah'll think about it," she said cautiously.

"D'accord, d'accord," he said amiably, resuming eating his crepes. "Anyt'ing y' like, _chere_. Like I said, 'm desperate. Y' pretty much get t' take whatever revenge yo' li'l _coeur _desires."

Marie was a little thrown by his- his _laissez-faire_. "Okay," she said awkwardly. She swallowed, feeling more awkward still, but the subject had to be broached if she was ever going to do this. "Ya don't expect anythang from meh. Ah, mean, Ah'll cook and clean Ah guess, if yoah gonna be payin' for mah food an' board," she amended. Her cheeks heated. "But ya don't ask anythang from meh in the- in the wife department."

He paused, looking at her with the first suggestion of a frown all morning. He put his fork down. "Y' t'ink I'd do dat?"

She flushed redder, and for the first time, admitted to herself what she feared the most about last night's blurred proceedings. Her tone was bitter as a knife's edge. "Didn't ya already?"

"_Non._"

It was flat, hard. Offended, even.

Marie closed her eyes in relief, as it swamped her. "Mah Gawd," she whispered. "Ah woke up in yoah apartment, the sheets awll messed up- you lookin' like the cat that ate the canary, me with a splittin' headache- an' Ah didn't remembah a thang-"

"Y' had y' clothes on, didn't y'?" he said bluntly.

Marie flushed again. "Ah wasn't really thinkin' clearly," she mumbled. "Was tryin' _not _to think about it."

He put down his fork. "Lemme set dis straight, _Marie_. Remy might be pretty unprincipled in some t'ings, but I ain' ever had sex with a _fille _dat was anyt'ing but sober an' enjoyin' herself thoroughly."

She blinked. He was angry.

_He _was angry?!

"Forgive meh for makin' the assumption, since ya took advantage of meh by conning meh into _marryin' _ya!"

She held his shrouded gaze for a while longer until his jaw unclenched and he conceded the point. "Guess it wasn' too far o' a stretch. Desolé, _chere_. I promise dat I didn' touch y'." Then mercurially, he flashed another grin. "Except, dat is, when I carried yo' drunken self through m' door. Y' giggled like a li'l _fille, _an' said y'd always wanted t' be carried over de threshold."

"Oh mah Gawd," she groaned; but couldn't help but see the ridiculousness of the picture. She fought a grin, and lost.

He smiled back at her. "Y' very pretty when y' laughin', chere."

She leaned back and raised an eyebrow, resisting the compliment. "Ah want to know more about yoah family, what exactly Ah'm gettin' into, an' what all Ah'm gonna have to do in terms o' actin for the year-"

"Eat y' crepes," he interupted.

She bristled.

Remy sighed, exasperated. "_Mon Dieu, _girl. Dey getting cold. Business can wait 'till later, we got weeks t' work out de details. Remy refuses t' talk _any _more about it 'till breakfast's done."

Business. Somehow, that had not been a word involved in her visions of her future marriage; visions she had only truly indulged in after the Cure.

For about a week.

"_Fahne_," she ground out. When he apparently was oblivious to her pointed ire, merely continuing to exhibit open approval of his meal, she turned her disgruntled attention to her plate.

She loved crepes. She loved good Southern cooking, whether Mississippi or Louisiana in origin. Nonetheless- food really, _really_ sounded like a bad idea.

"Y' feel better after y' get some solids in y', chere. Believe me, I know."

Marie looked up at him resentfully, and picked up her fork. But strangely, after the first bite, she found he was right. She did feel better. And it tasted wonderful.

"Ah been up north too long," she muttered.

He glanced up at her, smiling slightly. "New York, _oui_?"

She nodded. "Westchester. It snowed almost every day this winter." _Which might have had something to do with Storm._

He winced in sympathy. "Well, Remy's brought y' back t' de good ol' South again, so y' c'n rest easy an' enjoy de weather."

She rolled her eyes. "Ah don't think ya had anythang to do with mah hitchhikin' down here on a whim, swampy."

Remy shrugged, unconcerned. "Non, but Remy take care o' y' de rest o' de way, _hein?_ I show y' all 'round Louisiana, _chere_." He locked her gaze. "Wherever y' want."

A smile crept over her face, despite herself. "Sounds nahce," she said softly.

What was with that_?_

A comfortable silence descended. Marie found herself in an incongruously good mood, and attributed it to the crepes. Once again, though, she was quite strangely disinclined to rummage around for any other reason. She frowned.

But then Remy grinned at her; and she suddenly didn't care again.

* * *

Remy, of course, used his empathy/charm _liberally _the entire time, which made his job- and mine- a lot easier. Too bad Rogue isn't as susceptible as most, or this would've been an easy, two to three page chapter. Grr.

So, feedback, _s'il vous plait_? I'd like to know what I should work on. For instance, were the accents too heavy? I always have a problem with Remy's- _I _know what I'm trying to have him say, and I hear it in my head, so I have poor judging ability on the amount of apostrophes I can throw in there.

This was a long chapter. It'll be a while before I work the kinks out of the next two to three- they're filler chapters, and I always have the _worst _time with those. So, sorry in advance about the wait.


End file.
